At last—at long last—Niccola could put feathers in her hair again. Tongue poked out in concentration, she twisted and tucked the front section of her Varnic braided crown into place while Phoebe grumbled beside her. They'd jostled for a spot in front of the bedroom's only mirror for hours now. Niccola "accidentally" clocked an elbow on her sister's head. Phoebe retaliated with a jab to the ribs, where a constellation of bruises would mark their sibling battles by the end of the day. Not that Niccola was about to move. Doing her hair and winding up her sister were two of her favorite activities.

Phoebe put her shoulder to Niccola's side and pushed. "Hey!" said Niccola as she was removed from mirror-view, unable to let go of her hair with either hand. She crouched to Phoebe's height and shoved back. Phoebe took the bait. They pressed against one another, harder and harder, until Niccola abruptly stepped back. Phoebe ate carpet. Before she could recover, Niccola had reclaimed her spot in front of the mirror.

"Enjoying yourself?" she said without turning around.

Isaiah was laughing silently—but not silently enough—from his spot on their bed. He'd already changed and seen to his hair, which took about as much maintenance as a royal meadow-lawn—which is to say, practically none at all.

"Immensely," he said.

Niccola huffed and returned to her hair. She'd been at this for two hours already and wasn't yet done, but by the sky, it was going to be worth it. No matter how fiercely her arms ached. Phoebe at least recognized the concentration required for the crown's final steps, and did not attack again as Niccola shut her eyes, navigating the finishing touches by touch alone. And then it was done. She dropped her hands and turned to the mirror again.

Feathers. Niccola nabbed the little wooden box from the vanity and cracked it open. Where Margaret had found high-quality crow feathers in such a crow-suspicious realm as Calis was a mystery only Verde was privy to. Niccola selected downy plumes one by one and tucked them into her braids. Angled just right, they accentuated the swoops and whorls of the crown, black on black, until it looked for all the world like a separate adornment perched atop her head. Only when the feather-box was empty did Niccola step back to admire her reflection again. Her newfound arm strength from three moons scrubbing pots and hauling firewood had come to something useful once again, and kept her hands steady for far longer than she'd managed before. The crown had turned out perfectly.

"How does it look?" she said to the room at large.

"You're missing something," said Phoebe.

Niccola shot her a quizzical look. In reply, Phoebe pulled out a small jar she herself had drawn from when styling her hair, besides another box of feathers. Niccola froze.

The Varnic royal crown had variants. Feathers were for special occasions, but they were not the only decorations that graced the stiff curls of the royal family over the generations. Wooden beads, dyed red as winterberries, denoted enthroned royalty. Niccola had always expected she would never wear them. But many things had changed in the last nine months.

She couldn't even protest this. She would soon hold not one but two thrones—one in Varna at Phoebe's side, and one in Calis at Isaiah's.

"It's already done," she said, tongue running away from her in a vain attempt to deflect the honor Phoebe wanted to bestow upon her.

Her sister wasn't having it. "Sit down. I'll add them."

Niccola sat weakly. Phoebe set about her hair, freeing the very tips of braids to thread beads onto them before tucking them into place again. Not a single feather was displaced. When Phoebe told Niccola to rise again, a different reflection greeted her. One she thought she'd never do more than imagine.

"Can I see?" said Isaiah.

The request interrupted Niccola's speechless gaze. Still stunned, she crossed the room to join him as he scooted to the edge of the bed. Niccola sat on the floor in front of him. His touch sent delicious tingles over her scalp and chased away the shock of seeing herself as proper royalty. Isaiah ran his fingers over the braided, feather-woven, bead-bejeweled crown that had taken two hours to conjure from her thick cloud of curls.

"It's beautiful," he murmured. "How in Calis's name did you do this?"

"By not doing it in Calis's name," said Niccola with a cheeky grin, then, "Hey! Don't mess it up," as Isaiah mock-cuffed the back of her head.

"I'm not messing up anything. It's completely secure." She could tell by his touch that he was still trying to follow what she'd done. "Is this just a twist here? Oh no, you've got something else going on. Where does that go?"

Niccola laughed. "Varnic secret. Maybe if you grow your hair long, I'll show you."

"Thank you, but I prefer having my Saturday full-mornings free."

"Fair enough." She doubted it would suit him anyway. Isaiah's fingers found the fringe of baby hairs that still fuzzed her hairline, making Niccola squeak at the tickle. "I still have to set the edges. Those won't be frilly for long."

"No, don't do that. I have a better idea."

Niccola started to ask, but Isaiah had already slid out from behind her and made for the stairs. Niccola heard the back door of the house open and shut, then the door to Margaret's workshop. Margaret and Isaiah returned together. Both disappeared into the master bedroom. This time, Isaah finally returned alone. He wore a coy smile, and held one hand behind his back.

"What is it?" said Niccola, now fiercely curious.

"Close your eyes."

She did, knees bouncing with a desire to see already. Isaiah returned to his spot and laid what felt like a rolled-up silk kerchief across Niccola's forehead. A Calisian headscarf. He guided its ends around the edges of her hairstyle, and tied them at the nape of her neck. Niccola lifted a hand to feel the kerchief, but Isaiah swatted it away. "Not yet. Up."

He grasped her shoulders from behind, and Niccola felt her way to her feet. Isaiah guided her to the mirror, then said, "Open your eyes."

She did, and gasped. Nearly all Calisian women and many men wore these. Niccola had taken to wearing them herself these last three moons in order to blend in. But the kerchief that framed her face now was finer than any she'd ever seen. Glossy and smooth as water, it was dyed in patterns of black and deep forest green, shot through with silver thread. When Niccola turned her head to inspect it, the fabric shimmered in harmony with the feathers in her hair, themselves shifting through ethereal colours that were never the same twice. Niccola tried to describe it, only to find she'd lost her words.

"Do you like it?" said Isaiah. He sounded pleased with himself.

"It's gorgeous." Niccola paused. "But that doesn't do it justice. Is it Margaret's?"

"She said Verde got it for her when he was trying to win her over."

"Did it work?"

"I don't think she'd have given it to me if it didn't."

It was Niccola's turn to cuff him. He ducked, laughing. "Do you want to wear it?"

"The first person to try and take it off me will be parting ways with their hand." Niccola spun around and flounced back to the bed while Isaiah chuckled. The crow-coloured gown she'd long ago stolen from Esther's closet was laid out over the pillows in all its elegance. Niccola had been prepared to steal it properly, until a better idea sent her back to the Bel Ilan manor to return the "borrowed" clothing item. Lady Selah had, of course, pressed it upon her and insisted she take it—in front of Esther, whose dismay had made Niccola's whole day. She'd never walked home feeling more pleased with herself.

Isaiah made himself scarce while Niccola and Phoebe changed. When Niccola finished and turned around again, it was to find her sister watching her with a tilted head.

"You should have the slippers," she said.

Niccola blinked, taken aback. Phoebe had always coveted those beaded slippers—so much so that she'd pranked Niccola on multiple occasions back home for making off with them.

"Are you sure?" she said.

"You want to look nice, don't you?"

"I mean, yes, but—"

"And the queen doesn't sound like a nice person, so she's going to judge you harder than she'll judge me. Take them. I want you to look nice, too."

"What will you wear, then?"

"I fit Judith's old shoes." Verde and Margaret's daughter. Phoebe snagged the slippers from her own bed and deposited them at Niccola's feet. "Put them on. I want to see."

Niccola did so.

"Turn around," said Phoebe. She held herself with the authority of a tailor, her mind made up, determined to see that Niccola wasn't cutting corners when it came to her outfit. "You'll be cold," she declared next. "Let me find something in Judith's old wardrobe. You might fit her shoulders, even if you don't fit her chest."

She bustled off, leaving Niccola alone in the room. Niccola stepped back in front of the mirror. The last time she'd posed like this, she had felt like a queen. Today, it was no longer just a feeling. Nor did that thought unsettle her like it always had. Isaiah was right: no one person should rule alone. But she wouldn't have to.

It was a strange experience to pull up in front of the Calisian royal palace in a carriage. Niccola had only ever arrived on foot, trudging up the long, broad road while the wall and its gates grew to fill the view in front of her. She'd only ever taken the smaller guard's door beside them. Today, in sharp contrast, the main gates themselves ground open to admit the carriage and its occupants. Niccola watched out the window until they pulled to a halt in front of the main palace doors.

Isaiah let Pekea scramble from his lap onto his shoulder. Niccola exited the carriage first and offered him a hand. She could feel the tremble in his grip. Little did more to fan the coals already burning in her chest since they'd left Verde and Margaret's this morning. She could tell Isaiah wanted nothing more than to flee—either back the way they'd come, or to the side door he'd smuggled her through many a time. Niccola had only once entered the palace by its main doors, and her whole body strained to repeat the experience. To repeat it, and this time to make it right.

There would be no more hiding. No more deference. No more carefully selected sparring words. Meribah had no power over her anymore.

One signal from Isaiah to the door-guards, and the palace's front doors too swung open. Niccola smiled at both guards as she passed them. One smiled back with the smallest hint of conspiracy. They knew what was coming. Resolve boosted still further, Niccola released Isaiah's hand and slipped her arm through his instead, a more formal pose that would secure their image as a royal couple. Pekea eyed her hair. She began to lean sideways on Isaiah's shoulder, mouth opening to ambush a feather. 

Isaiah caught her face in one hand. "No, Pea. Not tonight."

"You guessed?" said Niccola with a chuckle.

"She's predictable."

Pekea withdrew and settled down again, pretending to sulk. It lasted approximately two heartbeats. Then she was at attention again, just as the doors to the throne room at the end of the hallway clunked and swung open. Isaiah swallowed hard.

Niccola squeezed their linked arms in reassurance. "You'll do great," she murmured. "And I've got your back."

She'd begun to verbalize such things over the last few days. Verde and Margaret both did, a pattern Niccola suspected was deliberate: a way to counter the corrosive words of the queen and king Isaiah endured at home. She'd noticed him reminding her of her importance in return, and appreciated it more than she ever thought she would. Hard as it was to hear sometimes.

The room ahead was not empty. Meribah and Tiras Cantor sat on their twin thrones in full royal regalia, every bit as intimidating as a queen and king could be. Niccola nodded to the four additional guards that lurked beside the doors. They took up positions around her, Isaiah, and Phoebe as Niccola lifted her head high and stepped into the room.